And the Greatest of These
by Swanseajill
Summary: Dean had a plan in case his words weren’t enough to bring Sam back, one he couldn’t share with Bobby.  If Bobby knew what he intended, he’d try to stop him, and that couldn’t happen.  He was prepared to risk everything rather than lose his brother again.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** And the Greatest of These…

**Author:** Swanseajill  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Bobby  
**Pairing:** None  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own them, making no money from them.

**Summary:** 'Dean had his bases covered, a plan in case his words weren't enough to bring Sam back. A plan he couldn't share with Bobby. If Bobby knew what he intended, he'd try to stop him, and that couldn't happen. Dean was prepared to risk everything rather than lose his brother again.'

**Author's Notes:** This fic is set ten months post AHBL, but there are no specific spoilers for season 3 episodes and I've only slightly broken with canon! Grateful thanks as always to stealthyone for her fantastic beta job and for pointing out scenes that needed to be written to make this a far better story. You rock.

The story is complete, and I'll post a part a day over the next seven days.

**And the Greatest of These…**

And now these three remain:  
faith, hope and love.  
But the greatest of these is love.  
1 Corinthians 13:13

1.

The rusted nut stubbornly refused to turn, and the wrench skittered out of his hand, clanging to the ground. Bobby Singer cursed and stepped back from the truck, kicking the wrench in frustration and grimacing at the creaking of cramped muscles as he straightened his back. Damned pile of crap. He had worked on it for four hours, and it had barely been worth salvaging in the first place.

He glanced up at the sky, wiping an oily rag across his forehead to soak up some of the sweat running into his eyes. The sun was still a fierce ball of shimmering heat, but he spotted an ominous darkness on the horizon, and the air was still and heavy. A storm was coming in.

He glanced at his watch. Six p.m. Might as well knock off now; there was no time to finish the job before the storm struck. Tomorrow, the temperature should be down a notch or two. It would be easier to work on the truck when her bodywork wasn't hot enough to fry his balls to a crisp.

He jumped as the opening bars of Motörhead's 'Life's a Bitch' erupted from his jeans pocket and cursed Dean Winchester long and hard for the tenth time that week. He had to figure out how to change the ring tone back to something that sounded more like a phone than a heavy-metal concert. Course, he wouldn't have to worry about it in the first place if Sam had let him stick to his good old-fashioned landline. He had to admit, though, Sam's logic was faultless. They were right smack in the middle of a war, and it made sense for him to be available around the clock.

Irritably, he yanked the offending object out of his pocket and looked at the screen. Speak of the devil. He hit the go button with a grubby thumb.

"This better be good, 'cause I'm having a bad day," he growled.

"B….bby."

Something cold stirred in the pit of Bobby's stomach in response to the pain-soaked whisper.

"Dean! What's wrong?"

"N… need you… come… pick me up."

Pick him up? That meant either there was a problem with the car, or Dean was too badly hurt to drive. From the sound of his voice, the latter was most likely. In which case… "Dean, where's Sam?" he asked urgently. "Is he with you?"

A pause.

"Dean!"

"… not here."

"He's not with you?" Bobby's mouth went dry. "Where is he, Dean?"

"I don'…"

"Did someone take him?"

Silence.

"Dean! Did someone take Sam?"

"N… no. But he's… gone." Worry bled through the clipped words.

"Gone where?"

"I don'… know."

The chill in his gut morphed into a solid ball of fear. Sam would never just walk out on Dean if his brother were hurt. Maybe he'd gone for help, but Bobby could tell Dean was holding something back, and he had a gut feeling he knew what it was. Still, explanations would have to wait. Dean would never call for help unless he was desperate, and the first step was to get to him as quickly as possible.

"Dean, where are you?"

"'bandon… mine …"

Dean's voice faded out, and Bobby's grip on the cell tightened in reaction. He deliberately sharpened his voice. "Dean! Stay with me. Tell me where the mine is."

"Mitch… Mitchell Crossing."

"Mitchell Crossing, South Dakota?"

"Y… Yeah."

That was good. He could be in the Crossing in less than two hours.

"Dean, how bad are you hurt?"

A pause.

"Dean?"

"'m okay. Just… get here, Bobby."

"All right. Just tell me exactly where the mine is."

"I… don'… don't 'member."

"Sure you do. Try to focus, Dean, okay? Which direction did you head out of town?"

"I... south… on the 63."

Bobby blew out a sigh of relief. "Good, that's good. How far did you drive down the 63?"

"Five… six miles."

Good enough. "I'll be there soon as I can. You sit tight, you hear?"

"Not goin'… anywhere." There was the tiniest hint of humor in the words that reassured Bobby a little. Then Dean's voice changed. "Sam…"

Bobby's gut clenched. "Dean? What about Sam?"

"He's… he's not… he's… be careful…" The voice faded out.

"Dean! Stay with me, dammit!"

This time, there was no reply. Bobby cursed. He could tell from the static that the cell was still connected, which implied that Dean had probably passed out. Not good news if he was concussed.

With possible worst-case scenarios racing through his mind, Bobby slammed shut the old wreck's hood and headed for his favorite and most reliable truck, fishing the keys out of his pocket as he ran. If he floored the gas, he could be in Mitchell Crossing in ninety minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

See Chapter One for summary, author's notes, etc

**And the Greatest of These…**

2.  
It took more like two-and-a-half hours. Heading north, he drove straight into the gathering storm. Within fifteen minutes, he was battling gale-force winds and rain that battered solidly against the windshield and brought visibility down to virtually zero. He had no choice but to slow down, weighing frustration and impatience against the common sense that told him he would be no help to Dean if he drove the truck straight into a tree.

Turning east, around forty miles from Mitchell Crossing, he finally broke free of the storm. Here, the roads were dry, and the sinking sun still held a bite in its tail.

Dean had said the mine was five or six miles south of town. Bobby began looking for signs around ten miles out, yet still almost drove past the battered wooden board that hung crookedly on a post, the legend "Hooper Mine" barely legible in peeling red paint. He wrenched the steering wheel around and headed up the unpaved path, swerving frequently to avoid potholes. It was clearly some time since vehicles had used this backwoods route.

Two miles of hazardous driving ended abruptly in a wide clearing surrounded to the north and east by a dense pine forest. A couple of ramshackle huts stood forlornly to the west, and beyond them, partly obscured by a stand of tall pines, a large sign warned trespassers of danger to life and limb should they venture into the long-abandoned mineshaft.

Bobby drove into the clearing and brought the truck to a halt at a point where he had a good view of the terrain around him. He killed the engine and sat for a moment, simply listening. It was quiet, not even the sound of birdsong disturbing the almost unnatural silence. He hefted his gun, reassured by the weight of it in his hand, opened the door and stepped out of the truck.

He looked around warily. There was no sign of the Impala. No sign of Dean. No sign of anything.

"Dean?" he called, eyes still roving around, watching for movement. His voice sounded unnaturally loud.

"Over here."

The faint reply came from the direction of the mine. Bobby retrieved his first-aid kit from the truck and headed toward it, keeping a close eye on his surroundings as he went.

He found Dean sitting in the shade of the stand of pines. He was slumped against one of the larger trunks, legs stretched out in front of him, arms hanging loosely in his lap.

Bobby took one final look around to check for danger before squatting down beside him. One quick glance was enough to reveal that Dean was in bad shape. Lip split, left cheek badly bruised and the eye above it swollen half shut. The hair on the left side of his head clumped in a sticky mass of what could only be blood, and his right forearm was tightly wrapped with a makeshift bandage, dark with dried blood. Despite the heat, he was shivering, and the stale smell of vomit hung in the air.

Bobby squatted down in front of him. "Dean?"

Dean looked up, seeming to focus on him with some difficulty. "'Bout time the cavalry showed," he said softly.

Bobby grunted. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Not 's bad s'it looks."

"Well good, 'cause you look like a bone my dog's been chewing on for a week."

That got him a half-smile. "Got… bit… banged up."

"I can see that," Bobby said dryly. He could also see that Dean wasn't quite with him, eyes a little glassy and speech slurred. He reached out a hand and cupped Dean's uninjured cheek, turning his head so that the younger man had to focus on him.

"Dean, are we in any danger here?"

Dean shook his head and winced at the movement. "No. Was a… chulka… in the mine… but Sam… took care of it."

_Sam_ took care of it? Had the chulka beaten Dean to a pulp? And if so… "Where'd Sam go, Dean?"

Dean closed his eyes. "I don' know."

"He just up and left?"

"Yeah. Pretty much."

Bobby frowned. "How long ago did he leave?"

Dean opened his eyes again and stared at him dully. "Wha's it matter? 's gone."

"How long, Dean?"

Dean's eyes drifted shut again, concussion or blood loss – probably both – taking their toll.

"Dean!" Bobby spoke more sharply. "Open your eyes, stay with me."

It was clearly an effort, but Dean forced his eyelids open and tried to focus on Bobby.

Bobby slowly repeated the question. "Dean, how long has Sam been gone?"

"Don' know." Dean's eyes flicked to the side, and Bobby followed his glance. He could see the entrance to the mine, half-hidden in undergrowth, around ten to fifteen feet below tree level. "I fell …down the steps. Guess… I hit my head. Sam… was gone when I woke up."

Bobby frowned. "So he went for help?"

A long pause.

"_Dean_."

"No."

That one word, uttered in a terse, defeated tone, confirmed Bobby's original fears. His jaw tightened. He had to know just how bad it had gotten. "He's not possessed," he said, more statement than fact.

"No."

"All right. Then you need to tell me what happened."

"Can we… talk 'bout this later?"

Bobby looked at him long and hard. He sensed that Dean was telling the truth when he said he didn't know where Sam had gone. It was also clear he didn't expect him to be coming back any time soon, or he'd have warned Bobby to be on his guard.

Bobby made a decision. "Yeah, it can wait. I'm gonna get you out of here, but I need to check you over first, okay?"

A muscle in Dean's cheek twitched. "'M fine."

"Humor me. What happened to your arm?"

Dean glanced down at the bloody bandage as if he'd never seen it before. "Cut it."

The bandage turned out to be an arm of a long-sleeved overshirt. It wasn't seeping blood, though there was enough soaked into Dean's T-shirt and jeans to prove that the wound had initially bled a lot. Bobby decided to leave it alone. He didn't want to risk starting fresh bleeding; Dean couldn't afford to lose any more blood right now.

"Where else does it hurt?"

"Ev'where."

"Okay," Bobby said patiently. "Where does it hurt most?"

Dean considered for a moment, and Bobby could almost see the cogs turning in his sluggish brain. "Side. Head."

"I need to take a look."

Careful examination revealed several cracked or broken ribs and a two-inch cut just above Dean's left ear. Probably a catalog of other cuts and bruises, too. All in all, the boy was a mess.

He decided against taking the time to clean any of the wounds. He knew there was a hospital in Mitchell Crossing, and his best move would be to hightail it back to town and get Dean some professional care as soon as possible.

Dean had kept still during Bobby's examination, the occasional tightening of muscles and sharp intake of breath the only indication that he was hurting. As Bobby moved back, he looked up and smiled crookedly. "Finished gropin' me?"

Bobby managed a grin. "Yeah, I've seen more than enough. Gonna get you to a hospital now and let some old dragon give you a sponge bath."

Dean scowled. "Don't need... 'spital."

"Yeah, you do, and this isn't a negotiation, so don't even bother to argue."

"Not… safe. 'm on… FBI… most-wanted list, 'member?"

"We'll have to take that risk. We're not screwing around with head injuries, Dean, and you might be hurt worst than it looks." Dean didn't argue and that fact alone worried Bobby. He scrutinized the injured man carefully. Dean looked like he was close to passing out. "Think you can make it to the truck, or do I have to carry you?"

The scathing look Dean shot him was pure Winchester, and Bobby bit back another grin. The kid was too damned independent for his own good, never knew when to give up and ask for help. He got that from his daddy.

It took some effort, but eventually Bobby had Dean on his feet. He held on as the younger man swayed dangerously and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

"Steady, now. Take a minute."

"'M okay. Jus' bit dizzy." Dean's eyes were wide and glassy, and Bobby was sure he'd collapse in a boneless heap if he didn't hold on to him tightly.

"Take your time."

He waited a few minutes until Dean released his grip on the shirt. "World stopped spinning?"

"Kinda."

"Want to try moving now?"

"Yeah."

They made it to the truck with Bobby bearing most of Dean's weight and grunting with the effort. Boy was heavier than he looked. He paused, balancing Dean against the side of the truck so he could open the door.

"Almost there."

Dean swayed again and lost all remaining color. "Think I'm gonna hurl."

Bobby supported him as he leaned to one side, body racked with dry heaves. Probably already lost whatever solids he'd had in his stomach. Bobby winced in sympathy.

When Dean finished, he was trembling, and the freckles on the undamaged side of his face stood out starkly against the pallor. He looked so sick and miserable that for a moment, Bobby wondered if Dean had a serious internal injury he hadn't found in his quick examination. The sooner he got the kid to the hospital, the better he'd feel.

Bobby manhandled his burden into the passenger seat, then snagged a water bottle from the back seat, opened it up and put in Dean's hand. Dean stared at it blankly until Bobby gently coaxed him into lifting it to his lips and swallowing a few mouthfuls. When he finished, Bobby pulled an old blanket out of the back and wrapped it around Dean's still trembling body, then closed the door, walked around and jumped up into the driver's seat.

"Set?"

Dean just grunted, rested his head against the door and closed his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

See Chapter One for summary, notes, etc

**And the Greatest of These…**

3.  
Bobby rubbed a hand over still-gritty eyes and swallowed the final mouthful of scalding-hot liquid. Despite a shower and the donuts and coffee he'd bought at the motel's store, he still felt a little spacey. Lack of sleep would do that to a person, and he'd had precious little of it the previous night.

He'd driven straight to the hospital in Mitchell Crossing. The town was clearly a law-abiding place, because the ER had been surprisingly quiet, and a middle-aged man who'd made his disapproval of bar brawls known and who clearly thought Dean had simply reaped what he sowed had seen Dean immediately.

They'd put twelve stitches in his arm and five in the gash on his head and sent him for X-rays. Bobby had been relieved when the ribs were confirmed cracked but not broken and the head X-ray clear, although a level 2 concussion was diagnosed. Thankfully, there were no internal injuries.

The doctor had wanted to keep Dean overnight, but eventually agreed that Bobby could take him "home," with strict instructions to wake him every couple of hours to check his responses and to bring him back if the concussion symptoms worsened. Bobby had nodded agreement, but the order to keep Dean off his feet for a day or two to allow him time to heal would be harder to implement.

After giving Bobby directions to the motel he and Sam were staying in, Dean had dozed on the drive, a combination of painkillers and fatigue taking their toll. In the room, Bobby had noted that there was no sign of Sam's belongings; this didn't seem to surprise Dean, who fell asleep almost as soon as Bobby helped him settle in his bed. Bobby had reluctantly concluded that answers could wait until the morning.

It was now 8:30 a.m., and after a disturbed night, Dean was finally sleeping deeply. Despite his desire to get answers, Bobby was reluctant to wake him. He had a feeling neither of them would be getting much sleep over the next few days. So he sat on the edge of the other bed, trying for patience, and let his memory float back to the first time he'd met the Winchester boys.

At that time Bobby had known John for a few years, but Winchester had never brought his kids on a hunt, although Bobby knew of their existence. For a reason Bobby had never discovered, this time John turned up on his doorstep with the two young boys in tow.

Dean would have been around six, and Sammy two. Bobby had a vague memory of Sam as a happy, chubby little guy with a shock of brown hair sticking out at all angles. But Dean had made the greatest impression on him. Watching Dean now as he slept, Bobby vividly remembered that slight, solemn little boy, seven going on seventy, who had firmly held on to Sam's hand and asked politely if Bobby had any cookies because Sammy was hungry.

Bobby had taken to the kid straight off. He'd let him help out in the garage, and Dean had shown signs even then that he was going to be good with his hands. He grew up to be a natural and talented hunter, too, with sharp reflexes and good instincts.

Bobby had liked John Winchester. They'd hunted together on many occasions through the years, and Bobby had counted him a friend. But as a father, he'd stunk. Sure, Bobby would be the first to admit he was no expert, but he'd known other hunters who managed to combine the hunting life with raising kids. Admittedly, most of them weren't single parents, but still, it was obvious that those boys had grown up with a drill sergeant rather than a dad. John had been a man with a mission, and he'd allowed nothing to get in its way – not even his boys.

Dean stirred, and Bobby pushed away the memories. He waited patiently for a few minutes until Dean was fully awake and turned reasonably alert green eyes his way.

"Thought you were gonna sleep straight through 'til Tuesday," Bobby said lightly.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Time is it?"

"Eight thirty. How're you feeling?"

Dean slowly pushed himself up, bunching pillows up behind him. Bobby didn't miss the grimace of pain that crossed his face at the action. "I'll live."

"You'd best take some more of the painkillers they gave you in the hospital. Doc said you'd need them."

Dean squinted at the bottle Bobby was brandishing and shook his head. "Too strong. They'll just knock me out again. You got any Tylenol?"

Bobby had anticipated the request. He fished out of his pocket the packet of Tylenol he'd taken from the first-aid kit in the truck and tipped three into Dean's hand. "You take those others if the Tylenol doesn't do the job."

Dean snorted. "Yes, Mom." He swallowed the tablets and chased them down with a mouthful of water from the bottle on the table.

Knowing that Dean had inherited the independence gene from his father, Bobby held back from offering help as Dean slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up shakily. As he was clad in only boxers, Bobby couldn't miss the array of bruises that stood out against pale skin, and he frowned at the vicious, boot-shaped bruise over Dean's ribs. That must hurt like hell.

He held his peace as Dean made his way to the bathroom, hunched up like an old man.

When Dean returned ten minutes later and gingerly sat down on the edge of his bed, Bobby gestured to the Styrofoam cup and the paper bag beside it.

"Coffee and donuts, if you're hungry," Bobby said.

"Thanks."

He watched in silence as Dean downed half the coffee and took a few half-hearted bites out of the donut before putting it back in the bag. Dean was more alert than the night before, but he still looked like crap. Clearly felt like crap, too, though he was trying hard to hide it.

"I think it's time you told me what's going on," Bobby said bluntly.

Dean flicked a glance at him and took another mouthful of coffee.

Bobby sighed and folded his arms. "Do I need to turn this into an interrogation?"

Dean studied his hands for a moment, and when he finally raised his head, his gaze was serious and intent. "Look, Bobby, if I tell you what went down, you gotta keep calm. Promise me you won't go off half-cocked."

Bobby had spent half the night working through possibilities, and Dean's expression confirmed his suspicions. Given the available facts, there were few alternative explanations. "_Sam_ did this to you, didn't he?"

It wasn't a question, but if it had been, the flicker of pain in Dean's eyes would have been all the confirmation he needed.

Bobby sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face. "Aw, hell, Dean."

"He wasn't himself."

"So you just let him beat the shit out of you." Again, it was a statement rather than a question.

Dean shrugged. "I didn't take it lying down, but yeah, I held back. I didn't want to hurt him."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Have you looked at yourself? He could have killed you!"

Dean flinched. "He wasn't trying to kill me. Anyway, Sam didn't do all this. I fell. Cut my arm on some barbed wire and cracked my head. And like I told you, when I woke up, he was gone."

"No problem, then," Bobby said, not attempting to keep the sarcasm from his voice. He shook his head. "Dean, he left you at the bottom of those steps unconscious and bleeding. That's real caring brotherly behavior."

Dean's mouth tightened in a hard line.

Bobby leaned forward and softened his tone. "Dean, you gotta trust me. I know you want to protect him, and I get that, but this has gone too far. You can't do this alone."

Dean let out a long, slow breath, and Bobby noted his lips tightened as one hand moved to his ribs. "I thought it was over," Dean said quietly. "I thought once I wasted that yellow-eyed sonuvabitch, it would be over for Sam… the whole dark-side thing."

Bobby nodded. "Me, too. But we've both seen the change in Sam." Sam's cold, satisfied smile after they killed a couple of ghouls on their last hunt together flashed through his mind.

"I kept telling myself it was this freakin' war – he was just toughening up, that's all."

Bobby shook his head. "It's more than that, and you know it. He's started to enjoy the killing, goes out of his way to kill even if it isn't needed."

Dean was silent.

"So you gonna tell me what happened this time?"

"It was because of me."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"He was trying to protect me."

Bobby frowned. "I don't understand."

Dean took a mouthful of coffee. "In the mine, we split up to cover more ground. I had the chulka cornered, but I tripped, lost the flamethrower, and it had me to rights. It was seconds from killing me when Sam got there and he… I think he tapped into some kind of power, because he zapped that mother good. And then…"

"Then, what?"

"He… he just lost it. Took his knife, started hacking away at its body, like he was poss—" He stopped abruptly.

"And then?"

"Then… he was different."

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "Different, how?"

Dean scrubbed a hand across his face, wincing as he brushed the tender bruise on his cheek. "He started talking about his powers, how it all finally makes sense, how he can tap into the demonic powers and use them for good."

Bobby thoughtfully ran fingers through the stubble on his chin as he nodded to Dean to continue.

"I told him he wasn't thinking straight, and that's when he got angry, and we … argued."

Bobby snorted. "You mean he beat the stuffing out of you."

Dean gave him a half grin. "Yeah."

Bobby was silent for a moment and then said carefully, "You sure he wasn't aiming to kill you?"

Dean's grin faded. "No. How many more times do I have to say it?"

Bobby stared at him pointedly. "He wasn't pulling his punches, though, was he? And I saw the bruises, Dean. You didn't crack those ribs falling down the steps, so don't try to tell me you did."

"Okay, point taken. He was angry, but I think, in his mind, he was just trying to get me to see things his way."

"Which is?"

"I think he really believes he wants to go on hunting evil. Something's telling him that if he opens himself up to this evil inside him, then he'll be stronger, better, more able to hunt. Something's been pushing at him, and until yesterday, he's always managed to resist." He took a sip of coffee and studied the paper cup for a few moments. When he looked up again, his eyes were full of pain.

"He… he knew, Bobby. Couple of days ago, he said… he said he's afraid of what's happening to him and that he wanted me to… to… but I can't do it, Bobby. I couldn't do it before, and I can't do it now. I can't kill my own brother."

"Dean…" Bobby hesitated. The utter despair in the younger man's eyes was heartbreaking. Dean had fought so hard, for so long. Shit, he'd even traded his life for his brother's. For it to come to this now simply wasn't fair. But Dean had to face the truth.

"Dean, no one could have done more to protect Sam--"

"It wasn't enough!" Dean's voice rose in frustration, and his eyes flashed in anger. "Dad said if I couldn't save him, I'd have to kill him, but I can't do it… There has to be another way."

Bobby stilled. Damn John Winchester. He'd always suspected that John knew more about the demon and its plans than he'd ever let on to other hunters, even those he called his friends. How long had he known there was a chance that Sam might become evil?

Winchester was a piece of work, all right. Twenty-five years ago he'd given a four-year-old boy a burden that should have been his own, and Dean had taken and carried it ever since. To add to that another burden that he knew would be well nigh unbearable? That was just wrong, and Bobby felt a familiar anger against his friend bubbling to the surface.

"Bobby?"

Dean was looking at him quizzically, and he realized he'd let himself be sidetracked. He pushed down his own emotions.

"You have to face the facts, Dean. Maybe there's something we can do, but if not… look, you won't have to… If it comes to it, I'll…"

"No!" Dean's chin came up. His voice was firm, but in his eyes, Bobby saw conflicting emotions. "He's my responsibility."

"Dean—"

"There must be something. I've been researching every minute I can when Sam's not looking. And I can't find anything, Bobby. But there has to be something. Tell me there's something we can do."

Bobby looked at him, hurting for him, hating to see the desperation flooding from every pore. Inside, he was kicking himself that it had taken him so long to put everything together. He'd seen the signs, but he'd done the same as Dean, trying to rationalize Sam's behavior until a point when he could ignore it no longer. He just hoped that he wasn't too late.

"Look," he said, "I've been doing a bit of research myself."

Dean raised an eyebrow.

"You're not the only one who's been worried about Sam. But you have to answer me one question, and I need the truth."

Dean looked at him curiously and nodded.

"Does Sam have demon blood in him?"

Dean physically flinched at the blunt question, and Bobby could almost see the thoughts whirling in his mind. If he told the truth, could he trust Bobby not to sacrifice Sam for Dean's good and for the good of those around him?

Bobby waited, knowing the significance of this moment. Dean didn't give his trust easily, especially where his brother was concerned. He was surprised at how much he wanted to hear that he'd earned that trust.

Dean's eyes searched his for a long moment, and then he nodded slightly. "I didn't know until a week ago. He was scared about what was happening to him. He told me he'd seen Yellow-Eyes in a dream, and he had a vision of when Mom died. The demon was in Sam's room, and it was…" He swallowed. "It was dripping blood into Sam's mouth."

Bobby blew out a breath. He'd suspected that Sam had some demon blood in him, but he hadn't worked out how.

"But the demon's gone," Dean said. "It doesn't have a connection to Sam any more."

"That's true – the blood's power should have died with the demon. But demon blood is demon blood, and it'll always find a way to work its evil. My guess is that when Sam died and you brought him back, the power was somehow triggered again."

Dean shot him a glance, his expression guarded. "You think I shouldn't have brought him back."

Bobby gave him a sharp look. "You know I never thought you should have sacrificed your life the way you did. But you gave Sam another chance – and we're gonna make sure he doesn't lose it."

Dean turned hopeful eyes on him. "You've got a plan?"

Bobby nodded. "We're going lookin' for Sam. Then we're gonna fight blood with blood and save your brother."


	4. Chapter 4

See Chapter One for summary, notes, etc

**And the Greatest of These…**

4.  
Finding Sam was the easy part. Late that evening, Dean simply called his cell. He told him he was at Bobby's, had been thinking things over, and wanted to meet up the following day. He let Sam choose the meeting place - a popular diner on the outskirts of Barberville, a small town just an hour's drive west of Bobby's home.

The next day, he and Bobby split up, agreeing that the older man should keep a low profile until the meeting with Sam began. To be safe, in case Sam was watching the house, Dean even left Bobby's alone.

He arrived at Connie's diner at eleven a.m., half an hour before the time they'd agreed to meet. He wanted – needed – a few moments alone to pull himself together, physically and mentally, in preparation for the ordeal ahead.

Dean parked in a space near the brightly painted entrance door and got out of the car. He was sure Sam was nearby when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Sam had probably holed up somewhere in town to watch the diner and make sure he arrived alone. He looked around carefully, as Sam would expect him to do, before sauntering inside.

The diner was full – only to be expected at that time of the morning. Dean spotted a free booth toward the back of the room and headed for it, choosing the far seat, where he had a good view of the door. He carefully arranged his body into his usual boneless slouch, trying to ignore the burning in his side and the constant pounding in his head. The pain was making him nauseated, and while the Tylenol he'd taken less than an hour ago had done little to take the edge off, he couldn't afford to dull his senses by taking anything stronger.

He gritted his teeth. He didn't want Sam to know how badly he'd been hurt back at the mine, nor to see how weak he was now. Pulling the sleeve of his shirt down a little further, he covered the dressing on his forearm. There wasn't much he could do about the stitches in his head and the square of white dressing that covered them, though, nor the bruises on his face that could compete with the fall leaves outside for color.

He felt groggy and spacey, hardly surprising as he'd barely slept the night before. Still, he was functioning well enough to recall those words spoken eight months ago. They were as clear in his mind as if it had been yesterday_. "Are you sure that what you brought back is one-hundred percent Sam?"_ And Bobby's words, too: _"My guess is that when Sam died and you brought him back, the power was somehow triggered again."_

He'd suspected for a long time that something was wrong with his brother, ever since the moment he'd watched Sam kill Jake with an expression of naked triumph. He had deliberately pushed the incident from his mind – after all, if anyone deserved a sense of satisfaction at that moment, Sam did - and tried to convince himself that there was nothing more to it. But the memory had come back to haunt him during the past few months as he'd witnessed Sam's clear enjoyment of each and every kill.

He'd wanted to tell Sam to get the hell out of Dodge, to go back to college, to a normal life where he had a chance to keep this thing at bay. But he'd known Sam wouldn't do it. Not while they were in the middle of a war Sam felt responsible for starting. And not while Sam was so focused on finding a way to break the crossroads deal.

Dean had grown afraid that Sam's fevered attempts to save him would lead to Sam trying to exploit his connection with the demon, and in so doing, lose himself to evil. It had been a profound relief for all sorts of reasons when Sam had found a different way.

The doorbell clanged, and Dean looked up as Sam walked into the room. He straightened a little, then nonchalantly laid one arm across the back of the seat, smothered a grimace at the accompanying flash of pain that shot through his ribs, and plastered his game face in place. Everything was riding on his ability to convince Sam that what he was about to say was the truth.

Sam spotted him and raised a hand in recognition, striding across the room toward the booth. He folded himself into the seat opposite Dean.

"Hey, big brother," Sam said easily with a wide grin. "I'm glad you showed. It was quiet in the motel last night without you there, snoring like a pig."

Dean hadn't been sure what to expect, but he hadn't anticipated Sam looking and sounding just like – Sam. Not that he'd expected his brother to have sprouted horns overnight, but he'd anticipated anger, or wariness, or – something. Not _Sammy_.

"Dude, I don't snore," he responded automatically to the familiar jibe.

"You so do." Sam waved a dismissive hand. "Anyway, like I said, I'm glad you showed."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Sam crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward, brow furrowed. "We didn't exactly part on the best of terms, did we? I wasn't expecting you to come around so quickly."

"Yeah, well, there's a war on, Sam. Time's a luxury we don't have."

Sam shifted, leaned back in his seat and linked his hands behind his head. He studied Dean's face, and a small smile played on his lips. "You look like hell, Dean. Pardon the pun."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Thanks. That makes me feel so much better."

Sam grinned. "Sorry about your face. Guess I've upped my game since we last fought, huh?"

A chill shot through Dean as he saw past the friendly smile, noticed in Sam's eyes the same unnatural light he'd seen during the fight back at the mine. He'd been wrong, he could see that now. This wasn't Sammy.

He'd been deliberately vague when describing the fight to Bobby, because it had been dirty and vicious and had shaken him to the core. Sam had attacked him with such ferocity that it had been all he could do to defend himself without inflicting any serious damage on his brother. As it was, he'd taken more punishment than he should have - the agony that shot through his ribs every time he moved was testimony to that.

But it wasn't so much the physical pain that had shaken him. It wasn't even Sam's words, spoken after a particularly brutal punch had split his lip and landed him on his ass. Sam had grabbed a handful of shirt and pulled him up until they were nose to nose. _"I'm leaving now. When you get your head out of your ass, you come and find me, okay?"_ Then Sam had drawn back his fist, and when it connected, Dean had seen stars. No, what had really scared him was the look in his brother's eyes as Sam delivered that final blow, which had sent Dean tumbling down the steps to the mine. The eyes that had searched his face had been ice cold and filled with a feverish, alien light. They could have belonged to a stranger.

Sam hadn't wanted to kill him – not then. But Dean wasn't sure what his brother would do if he realized that Dean still had his head firmly lodged in his ass.

The waitress who appeared at their table brought him out of his momentary reverie. Sam's eyes were still on him, and there was a slight smile dancing around his lips. For a moment, Dean was afraid his brother could actually see into his mind. He mentally shook himself and cursed himself for his momentary lapse of concentration. He had to stay focused.

He looked away casually and smiled at the middle-aged waitress. "Hi there… Betty. I'll take a large coffee, black, and a large cappuccino with some of those sprinkly chocolate things on the top for my brother."

"Sure thing, honey. What can I bring you to eat? The breakfast special's the best deal you'll get in town."

Dean's stomach did a flip-flop at the thought, and told him he was likely to throw up if he even looked at a plate of bacon and eggs. But Sam was still watching him closely, and he knew it would look suspicious if he turned down food. He forced some enthusiasm into his voice. "I'll take that, then. Sam?"

Sam glanced at the waitress with a bright smile. "I'll take the pancakes with some bacon on the side. Thanks."

The waitress scribbled down the order. "Coming right up, boys."

Dean waited until she'd walked briskly back to the counter and then leaned forward slightly. Time to get this show on the road.

"So, where've you been, Sam? Nice move, by the way, leaving me stranded in that godforsaken place."

Sam grinned. "Left you your cell, didn't I? Bet you called Bobby, right?"

For one heart-stopping moment, Dean wondered if Sam had been following their movements since Bobby arrived at the mine. But that was impossible. Bobby had been on his guard, and he'd have known if a car had been tracking them.

"How'd you know?"

Sam shrugged. "Just an educated guess. We don't have that many friends in South Dakota, Dean. What'd you tell him?"

"Not much. Just that after we killed the chulka, I slipped and fell down the steps, and when I woke up, you were gone. Told him I thought there was someone else around, that they must have taken you."

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Why'd you lie to him?"

"Why d'you think?" Dean answered casually. "What happened was between the two of us, Sam. I trust Bobby, but that doesn't mean he has to know all our business."

Sam nodded. "So you went back to his place?"

Dean had decided to tell as much of the truth as possible. Sam was less likely to catch him in a lie that way. "Bobby made me go to the ER, get some stitches in my head. We stayed in the motel and drove back to his place in the morning."

"Does he know you're here?"

"Yeah. I told him I called Ellen and she told me she'd heard a rumor that Gordon was out of prison and been spotted in Barberville. He agreed I should check it out."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I take it you made up the part about Gordon?"

Dean forced a grin. "'Course. Don't worry, little brother. Gordon's got a lot of years ahead of him in his cozy little cell."

"Yeah. And he deserves every minute of it. Guess it'll be a while longer before I get the chance to dish out the punishment he really deserves."

The waitress returning with their order gave Dean an excuse to look away from the feral light of anticipation that shone in Sam's eyes. He'd worn the same expression as he'd hacked away at the chulka's body. Dean suppressed a shudder. For a few minutes, he concentrated on forcing down a few forkfuls of egg and washing them down with large gulps of coffee, aware the whole time of Sam's eyes fixed on him.

"How's your breakfast?" Sam asked after a while.

"Awesome," Dean said, around a huge mouthful.

"Mine too. So, anyway, you said you've been doing some thinking about what I said. I'm guessing you've come to a decision."

Dean put his fork down and braced himself for the best acting job of his life.

"I'll be honest with you, Sam. I still don't like the idea of you getting too deep into all this 'power' stuff. We don't know where it'll lead." He held up a hand when Sam's eyes narrowed. "Don't get your pantyhose in a knot. You wanted to know what I'm thinking."

"Fine. You're not happy. So what are we doing here?"

"Let me finish, dude. I said I don't like the idea; I didn't say I wouldn't go along with it. You said it yourself yesterday – we're in a war, and our side needs all the help it can get. Desperate times call for desperate measures."

Sam frowned. "You still don't get it, do you? It's obvious I've been given these powers for a purpose. I don't see how using them qualifies as 'desperate measures'. All I'm doing is fulfilling my destiny."

The chilling sincerity in those words convinced Dean his brother really believed what he was saying. Unless Sam was a far better actor than Dean knew him to be.

"Whatever, Sam," he said casually. "You go on believing that destiny crap if that makes you happy."

Sam's lips tightened, and Dean went on hastily, tone firm, "Bottom line is, yeah, I have doubts about this. But one thing I do know, and that's that we have to stick together. No way am I letting you go off without me, not while we have a demon army to fight." He paused and leaned forward, tone softer now. "You're my brother. It's my job to look out for you, right? And I'm gonna carry on doing that, whatever it takes. So you can count me in."

Sam looked at him long and hard, and Dean gazed back with as much sincerity as he could muster. After long moments, Sam smiled. "Okay."

"Just one thing." Dean knew he couldn't give in too easily, or Sam would smell a rat.

"What's that?"

Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "If it looks like you're ever in danger of losing control of these powers, you stop using them. I want your word, Sam."

Sam sighed exaggeratedly. "You worry too much."

"Your word, Sam."

Sam smiled. "Fine. You have my word. Want to shake on it, too?"

Dean responded automatically to the outstretched hand. Sam leaned forward, grasped his forearm, and squeezed hard. Dean bit back a gasp as strong fingers dug painfully into the stitched-up gash.

"Something wrong?" Sam asked innocently.

Dean shook his head. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Sam held his eyes. "Just follow my lead, and everything'll turn out just fine."

Dean almost lost his breakfast. The warning in both the brutal grip and the softly spoken words was unmistakable and the clearest indication yet that his brother was no longer himself.

He forced a smile as he grasped Sam's forearm in return, and felt sweat break out on his forehead as Sam continued to squeeze. Then Sam abruptly released him, scooped up a final forkful of pancake and stood up. "We'd better get moving. I did some research last night. There's something very strange happening down in Louisiana. I'll tell you about it in the car."

"Lead on, little brother."

Dean waited for a moment until Sam had turned to leave before letting out a shaky breath. He wiped his face quickly with the sleeve of his shirt, then painfully levered himself out of the chair and followed his brother to the door.

They stepped outside, and Dean saw the Impala parked next to Bobby's car. He glanced around casually. There was no one else in the lot.

"Toss me the keys? I've missed my baby."

Sam stared at him for a moment, and then grinned. "Sure." He tossed the keys and walked around to the passenger side.

Dean stood beside the driver's door. "Hey Sam," he said lightly, "I hope you've treated my girl with the respect she deserves."

As Sam looked up to reply, his face contorted in pain, and he slapped a hand to his neck. He looked at Dean with an expression of surprise mixed with anger. Then his legs folded under him. By the time Dean reached him, he'd hit the deck, out cold.

Dean looked up as Bobby appeared beside him. "Hell, Bobby, what did you shoot him with? He went down hard."

Bobby grunted, straightening his cap. "There was enough tranquilizer in that dart to down an elephant. Should keep him out long enough for us to do what's needed."

Dean frowned. "You realize Sam's not an elephant, right? A sasquatch maybe…"

"Don't worry. I know what I'm doing. He'll have a bit of a headache when he wakes up, but he'll be fine."

Together, and with some difficulty, they manhandled Sam's 6'4" frame into the back of the Impala and drove out of town.


	5. Chapter 5

See Chapter One for summary, notes, etc

**And the Greatest of These…**

5.  
They wound up at an isolated cabin in the woods that belonged to an old friend of Bobby's. It boasted just one spacious room and a small bathroom. There was a kitchen area in one corner and a narrow bed in the other, as well as a small table and a couple of chairs. Spartan, but good enough for their needs.

Bobby securely tied Sam to a chair and placed it in the middle of the room. While he began to make preparations, Dean sat down in a chair a safe distance away where he could keep a close eye on Sam. He was thankful for the opportunity to rest. As soon as they'd safely stowed Sam in the car, he'd thrown up the food he'd managed to choke down at the diner, stomach rebelling from physical and emotional overload. Now, he felt weak, wrung out and exhausted.

He looked over at his brother. Sam always looked so young and innocent asleep, and now was no exception. Dean sighed. This shouldn't be happening. Not now. Not when there was finally a suggestion of hope that they might both have a future after all. That _he_ had a future - thanks to Sam.

His mind drifted back to the moment three months ago when Sam had shaken him awake and dragged him to the desk, then jabbed a finger at a page of an ancient, musty tome. Sam had been grinning from ear to ear and practically bouncing as he pointed out the ancient image that showed Dean's amulet protecting its wearer not only against possession, but also against hell itself.

Their subsequent confrontation with the crossroads demon had been a bit of an anticlimax, though it had been satisfying to see the demon rant and rail before finally admitting that Sam was right and her end of the contract was worthless.

Dean pursed his lips. Yeah, Sam had saved his life, but it'd be a hollow victory if he couldn't now save Sam's.

He scrubbed a hand across his face and rubbed at itchy, gritty eyes.

Bobby looked up from the table where he was working. "You okay?"

The real answer to that question was a resounding "no." His body was telling him to lie down and sleep for a week. His headache had slowly escalated from a dull throb to a constant and nauseating pounding. His face throbbed, an agonizing pain shot through his ribs every time he moved and his arm had been burning unmercifully since Sam's vicious treatment a few hours ago.

"I'm fine," he said. "You about ready?"

Bobby nodded. Dean stood up slowly, careful not to jar his damaged ribs, and walked over to join Bobby at the table. He looked curiously at the items laid out there. There was a machine that looked like a cross between a gun and a drill, a variety of different-sized needles and what looked like drill bits, and on the floor beside the table, a small, portable power unit. A few small packets of unknown substances rested next to a flask of holy water and a small bottle of black ink.

"What are those?" he asked, pointing to the packets.

"Ginseng and rosemary, to strengthen the binding power."

Dean laid a hand on the strange machine. "You sure you know what you're doing with that?" he asked apprehensively. Bobby had revealed a new side when they'd stopped off at a tattoo parlor in Hawks Ridge. The owner, a man in his fifties with a long black ponytail streaked with gray, had greeted Bobby like a long-lost friend. Bobby had just muttered something about a misspent youth, and that was all the explanation he'd given.

Bobby grinned. "I may be a bit rusty, but I've done more tattoos in my day than you've had hot dinners. This one's a simple pattern. Should be easy."

Easy. Dean hoped that referred to more than just the creation of the tattoo.

Bobby dragged the table across the room to a position near Sam's slumped body, and then glanced at Dean. "It's time."

Time. Mouth set in a grim line, Dean took out his knife and, without hesitation, drew it firmly across his wrist, careful not to cut too deep. He held the welling cut over the cup Bobby had put out for him, watching with a feeling of detachment as his blood dripped slowly into the cup.

After a few moments, Bobby nodded. "That should do it. You go and dress that cut. You've lost enough blood already in the past few days."

Dean obeyed silently, watching as Bobby began to mix the ingredients together. The blood, a vibrant crimson, was absorbed into the jet-black ink, leaving no visible trace.

When he was ready, Bobby looked at Dean for permission.

Dean licked his lips. This was all or nothing. "Do it, Bobby."

Bobby nodded and picked up the tattoo machine.

Bobby's plan had sounded like something out of a second-rate romance novel. Love conquers evil. What the hell was that supposed to mean? In Dean's experience, evil was on a winning streak. It had taken his mom and his dad and countless others. Then, it had taken his brother. Of course, he'd got Sam back, but it looked like that might be all for nothing. Still, when he'd read the ancient text for himself, it had seemed clear enough, and he'd felt a flicker of hope. There was a slim chance that this would work, and a chance was all a Winchester ever needed.

Miraculously, Sam barely stirred during the hour it took Bobby to complete the tattoo. Dean watched intently as the image began to emerge – two interlocking rings with some Latin wording inscribed around the edges.

When he'd finished, Bobby stood back and observed his handiwork. Then he spoke softly. "And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

Dean frowned. The words were familiar. "Who said that?"

"The Apostle Paul in a letter to the church in Corinth."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "You're quoting the Bible now?"

Bobby grinned. "Spent too much time with Jim Murphy."

Dean looked back at the tattoo adorning his brother's right bicep. It seemed such a small, insignificant thing with which to save Sam from evil. "What do those words mean?"

"Rough translation: 'Blood of love binds blood of evil'."

"Huh. Okay. So, what now?"

Bobby handed him a book. "You read the incantation out loud. It has to be you, it's your blood we've used."

Dean took the small book, already open to the right page, and walked across to stand in front of Sam. The reading was short, just a few sentences of Latin. He spoke the words loud and clear. When he finished, he waited, tense, wondering what would happen. But there were no blinding lights, no thunder and lightening. Sam slept on, oblivious.

"Bobby?"

"It's okay. This is just the first part. Remember what I said. Sam has to play his part – he has to _want_ this. He needs to deliberately reject evil, and when he does that, the binding power will kick in."

Dean leaned back against the table. "So all I have to do is make Sam see what's really going on here."

Bobby nodded. "That's about the size of it."

Dean forced a cocky grin onto his face. "Piece of cake."

Bobby studied him for a long moment, expression serious. "You're sure he still thinks he wants to fight evil?"

Dean flashed back to the moment Sam had grasped his injured arm, sending a clear warning. His grin faded, but he forced conviction into his voice. "I'm sure."

"All right then. That means there's still hope. But it's up to you. You're the only one who has a chance of getting through to him."

Dean nodded, expression somber. "I know. And that's why I want you to get out of here."

Bobby grunted. "Forget it. I'm not leaving you here alone."

"I'm not giving you a choice. If this goes south, I don't want you in the firing line."

"Dean, look at you. A two-year-old could knock you over—"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Dean retorted sarcastically, although he knew Bobby was right. Only the solid table behind him was keeping him on his feet.

Bobby took a step toward him. "I'm serious, Dean. You're in no shape to do this alone."

"Bobby, it's between me and Sam, you said so yourself. He'll be pissed enough when he wakes up – it'll only be worse if he sees you here, too. It makes more sense for you to be outside as backup if something goes wrong."

Bobby frowned and shook his head. "I still don't like it."

"You think I do?" Dean sighed. He wasn't up to an argument right now, but he really needed to win this one. "Bobby, please. I need you to do this."

He watched conflicting emotions skitter across Bobby's face. Finally, the older hunter nodded. "All right. Those ropes should hold him, but first sign of trouble, you holler, okay? I won't be far away."

Dean blew out a small breath of relief. "You got it."

Bobby put a hand on his shoulder. "Good luck, Dean."

"You too."

Bobby walked to the door, reluctance showing in every step. As he opened it, Dean called after him, "Bobby, thanks for… everything."

Bobby nodded, looked at him searchingly one more time, and stepped outside, closing the door quietly behind him.

Dean sank down on the chair facing Sam. His legs felt like rubber, and he fought to swallow back the bile that rose in his throat. He knew he desperately needed to rest, that adrenaline alone was keeping him going, but he had to hold on a little while longer.

He rested one elbow on the table and supported his aching head in his hand, eyes focused on his brother.

He wanted to believe that Bobby's incantation would work. Despite everything he'd seen and heard in the diner, he was pretty sure Sam still believed he wanted to fight evil, that he hadn't tipped completely over the edge. There was still hope. And Dean had his bases covered, a plan in case his words weren't enough to bring Sam back. A plan he couldn't share with Bobby. That was why he'd made the older man leave. If Bobby knew what he intended, he'd try to stop him, and that couldn't happen.

He was prepared to risk everything rather than lose his brother again.


	6. Chapter 6

See Chapter One for summary, notes, etc

**And the Greatest of These…**

6.  
Minutes ticked by and drifted into hours. Dean checked the time. Four p.m. He swallowed a couple more Tylenol, knowing they wouldn't be enough to mask the escalating headache and the constant pain in his arm and ribs, but afraid to take anything stronger. He needed to stay alert. He wished Sam would wake up, because he wanted this to be over, one way or another, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going.

His mind was drifting again when a movement drew his attention, and he looked across the room. Sam was awake, brow wrinkled in a frown. He groaned and shook his head, the headache Bobby had predicted clearly in evidence. He glanced around the room, blinked a few times, and then looked straight at Dean. Dean's throat tightened as the confusion in Sam's eyes morphed into curiosity. Clearly, Sam didn't think he was in any danger.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "So, the last thing I remember, we were walking out of the diner. Care to explain why I'm waking up tied to a chair with a killer headache?"

"Just want to talk to you Sam, that's all." Dean kept his voice calm and steady. It was imperative that he stay in control.

"Really? So back in the diner? That wasn't talking. That was you hitting me with a load of bull."

"I need you to listen to what I have to say."

Sam's voice hardened. "Since when did you start thinking you had to knock me out and tie me up to talk to me?"

"Since you stopped listening to reason," Dean replied bluntly.

Sam looked down and saw the tattoo on his right bicep. His face darkened. "What the hell is this?"

"Protection," Dean said evenly.

"Protection against what?"

"Against the demon blood inside you."

Sam laughed. "You know, for a while there, you really had me fooled. I'd give you a round of applause, but I kind of can't right now." The smile faded, and his features tightened. "I might have guessed you were too stupid and pig-headed to see the truth. How many more times do I need to tell you? The demon blood's our secret weapon – it'll give me the power to fight the demon army."

"You can't use evil against evil, Sam."

"Watch me," Sam replied, his voice cold now. "I can control it, Dean, I know I can."

Dean shook his head and hid a wince as the drums there increased their tempo. "No, you can't."

Sam scowled. "You just don't trust me, do you? You don't think I'm up to it, that I'm strong enough."

Dean tried to keep his voice even, reasonable. "It's not a matter of trust, Sam. You know I trust you. But you're right – I don't think you can control it. No one could. And I think it's already controlling you, otherwise you wouldn't be talking like this."

Sam cocked his head to one side. "You're so full of it. I know what's going on here. You've always been the stronger one – the better son, the better hunter. You're just jealous because now, I get to be the one who saves the day."

"Come on, Sam, that's crap, and you know it."

Sam shrugged. "Whatever. Either way, I'm done with you pushing me around, telling me what I can and can't do. So untie me."

"No," Dean said firmly. "Not until you come to your senses."

Sam's expression darkened. "Untie me now, Dean!"

"Or what, Sam?" Dean cocked an eyebrow. "You gonna use your super strength to escape and beat me up some more?"

Sam looked at him thoughtfully. Dean frowned uneasily as he glanced at Sam's bound wrists and ankles. He had no idea how strong Sam was at this point, or if the bonds would hold if Sam made a serious effort to get free. And it was too soon to let that happen.

Dean blinked as Sam's expression morphed smoothly from aggression into pleading and he turned the full force of his emotive puppy-dog eyes on his brother. "I don't understand why you're doing this. I need you, Dean. You're my brother! I want us to make this work - you and me, on the road, hunting, living life to the fullest. I want us to defeat this demon army together."

Dean knew Sam was probably trying to play him, but even so, the words and expression were so much like _his_ Sam that he had to steel himself against the emotion that threatened to flood him. "I want that too, Sam. But not like this."

Within a second, the pleading look was gone, replaced by a sardonic smile. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"No."

Sam chuckled. "So, what you gonna do, Dean? Your little tattoo – attractive as it is – doesn't seem to be having much effect, does it?"

"Just listen to yourself, Sam. This isn't you. You're letting it control you." Dean noted the rise in his voice and fought to remain calm.

"Is that so?" Sam cocked his head. "I've told you a hundred times, I know what I'm doing."

Dean made one final, desperate attempt at reason. "Sam, just stop for one minute and think about it. Think about what you're saying. How can you use something that's evil to fight evil? It doesn't make sense, does it?"

"It makes perfect sense to me."

"Only because that's what the demon blood's telling you. This is what it wants. It wants you to use your power more and more, because when you do, it'll be able to control you."

Sam gave an exaggerated yawn. "Have you finished?"

"No."

"You just love the sound of your own voice, don't you?" Sam said sarcastically. "Well, I've had enough. I told you, I'm done with you telling me how to live my life. And you know what? The truth is, I'm stronger than you. You just hold me back. You always have. Face it Dean – I'm the justification for your pathetic existence. You need me, but I don't need you. Never did."

The words and the sneer on Sam's face stung. Dean felt despair tug at him. He knew in his heart that no amount of talking was going to get through to Sam. It was time to force the issue. "It's time you made a choice, Sam. Good or evil. Simple as that."

Sam threw his head back and roared with laughter. "You always did have a simple outlook on life. Nothing's that black and white. There's good and evil in all of us. You of all people should know that. I've just decided to make my evil side work for me for a change."

"Sam, please." Dean was now the one pleading, begging, but he didn't care.

"Sorry, Dean. Guess it's your move now."

Dean licked his lips. He had one ace to play, and he'd feared from the start of this conversation that he'd have to play it.

He took out his knife, stood up slowly and walked over to the chair. Sam watched him curiously as he quickly cut through the rope holding Sam's left wrist to the arm of the chair. He put the knife down on the floor in front of Sam and stepped back.

Sam frowned, but made no effort to pick up the knife. "Is this some kind of trick?"

"No trick. Go ahead, untie yourself. But you're leaving this room over my dead body."

The brothers locked eyes. For one second, Dean thought he saw something flicker in Sam's, something that might have been confusion. Then it was gone. Sam grinned, leaned forward and picked up the knife. He hefted it in his hand, admiring the finely honed blade, and then his eyes fixed on Dean's for a long moment before he quickly cut through the ropes around his right wrist and ankles.

He stood up. "You know," he said conversationally, "I could have broken free of those ropes without the knife, but thanks for the help anyway."

Dean held his ground, muscles aching with tension and the effort needed to keep on his feet. His head was too heavy to hold up, and he felt dizzy and weak. He needed to end this while he still had the strength.

"Just step aside, Dean," Sam said mildly. "We can just go our separate ways, and I'll clean up the demon mess on my own."

Dean shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Come on, dude. I don't want to hurt you."

The words sounded genuine, but the mocking expression in Sam's eyes belied them. Dean's stomach churned. "Really? Well, that's tough, Sam. Because if you want to leave this cabin, you're gonna have to kill me."

Sam stared at him for a long moment, and then a sardonic smile formed on his lips. "Okay."

Dean's heart was thumping so hard he was surprised Sam couldn't hear it from across the room. His throat tightened. "You think you're in control?" he said tensely. "You think killing your own brother is the right thing to do? Then go ahead, Sam. I won't try to stop you."

Sam took a step forward and then, in a movement so fast it almost took Dean by surprise, closed the distance between them, forced his head back, and held the knife to his throat.

"Go ahead," Dean whispered, trying to keep his breathing even and hold his body still as the edge of the razor-sharp blade pressed against his skin.

Sam's face was inches from his own, breath warm on his neck. He pulled Dean's head back a little further and tightened his grip, fingers digging painfully into his scalp. The pounding in Dean's skull increased to a screaming crescendo while his ribs begged for relief as his body stretched in Sam's grasp.

Sam gouged his thumb into the stitches in the side of Dean's head, and he let out a gasp of pain. His vision began to darken, and only Sam's vise-like grip on his head kept him upright.

No. He couldn't pass out. Not now. Pulling the tattered edges of consciousness together, he focused all his efforts on holding Sam's gaze. "Kill me if you have to, Sammy, but at least look me in the eye when you do it."

Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, he heard a door slam and was aware of movement in the room, but he didn't dare break their locked gaze to look. He sensed Sam's hand tighten around the hilt of the knife and imagined Sam's muscles bunch as he prepared to drive it home. He knew then that he'd lost. He'd gambled that the bond between them would be strong enough to break through to Sam, but he'd been wrong. And it was going to cost them both their lives.

He didn't want to watch his brother plunge a knife into his neck, but he had no choice. He wouldn't give the evil inside Sam the satisfaction of knowing his fear.

"Are you really going to make me do this, Dean?" The words were mocking and sounded so wrong coming from his little brother's mouth.

"I'm not making you do anything. You want to kill your own brother, it's your choice, Sam."

Sam smiled. "I think I can live with that." He put a little more pressure on the blade, and Dean felt a sharp sting and blood trickling down his neck.

Sam glanced down at his handiwork and then back up at Dean. His expression of cold arrogance faded into confusion followed closely by shock. He let go of Dean and took a step back, gazing down at the knife in his hand. Then he looked up at Dean, eyes wide. "Dean?"

"Sammy…" His voice came out as little more than a croak.

Sam looked back at him with an expression of bewilderment that slowly morphed into horror. "Dean? What… I… oh, God, Dean!" The knife dropped from his fingers, and he cried out, face contorting in pain as the tattoo on his arm flared crimson.

It was Sam's voice. _Sammy_'s voice.

Relief flooded Dean. He opened his mouth to tell Sam it was all right, that everything was going to be all right now, but he couldn't seem to form the words. Without Sam supporting him, he felt disoriented. Dizziness overcame him, and his knees began to buckle. He felt himself fall just before his world faded to black.


	7. Chapter 7

See Chapter One for summary, notes, etc

**And the Greatest of These…**

7.  
The irritating buzz at the edge of his consciousness slowly coalesced into the murmur of voices. Other senses began to kick in, and he became aware that he was half-lying, half-sitting, leaning against something solid but warm. He could distinguish words, uttered by a voice he knew well, a voice laced with fear and confusion.

"What have I done? Oh, God, Bobby, what have I done? Dean…"

He knew immediately where he was and what had happened. The last image burned into his mind was of Sam dropping the knife as he cried out Dean's name.

He felt fingers at his throat and panicked, reflexively lifting a hand to swat them away. A large hand closed around his wrist, and Sam's anxious voice said, "Dean, it's okay. You're okay."

He struggled to open leaden eyelids and finally succeeded. He was leaning with his back against Sam's chest, one of Sam's arms supporting him around his waist and the other hand still clasping his wrist. Sam's face was inches from his own, sporting an expression of profound relief.

"Bobby, he's awake!"

"Sam?" Dean managed. His voice sounded weak and raspy, and even that one word was an effort.

Bobby squatted down beside them and nodded. "It worked, Dean. We got him back."

Thank God. Dean shut his eyes again because it was too much effort to keep them open. He felt Sam's arm tighten around him, and it occurred to him that it was less than cool to be lying here like a girl, practically cradled in his brother's arms. But it was warm and comfortable, and he was so, so tired. Maybe it would be all right to stay here for just a few minutes, until he had the strength to get up.

His last thought, as sleep overtook him, was that Sam really did have enormous hands. Just like giant hams…

The next time he woke, he was stretched out on his back on something soft. He lay quietly for a moment, assessing his physical condition. All in all, he concluded he wasn't doing too badly. The pain levels had definitely dropped, and his headache was at a manageable level. Mostly, he just felt weak and tired.

He opened his eyes half-mast and saw Sam sitting on a chair beside the bed -- not a hospital bed, but the one in the cabin -- long legs stretched out before him and one hand firmly clasped around Dean's wrist. Sam was looking away from him, presumably talking to Bobby. His tone was awash with guilt and anguish, and Dean sighed inwardly. He'd known this would happen. Sam was blaming himself for everything, berating himself for what he'd done to Dean. Dean just wasn't ready to face that, so he closed his eyes again and let the conversation continued around him.

"It was the blood," Sam said. "I looked down and I saw the blood – _Dean's_ blood – and I…" he paused, and his grip on Dean's wrist tightened briefly. "I don't know, it was like I woke up and I was watching someone else holding that knife, about to… and then I realized it was me."

"That was the moment you broke free of the demon blood's influence."

"Yeah," Sam said, his tone weary and subdued, and let out a long sigh. "I can't explain how it felt. I remember everything. Back at the mine, after I killed the chulka, it was like everything fell into place. I could see the way forward, and it felt right. I was so angry with Dean because he didn't get it. I wanted to beat some sense into him… Bobby, I just left him there, unconscious. He could have died!"

"But he didn't. Don't be so hard on yourself, Sam," Bobby said gruffly. "It was that demon blood doing the thinking for you."

Sam let out a long, slow breath. "I knew what was happening to me. I'd known for a long time that something wasn't right. I should have taken care of it. I should have made Dean…"

"Don't take all the blame on yourself."

"Who else should I blame? Dean? All he's ever done is try to protect me. And all I ever do is hurt him. And he just keeps coming back for more. Why, Bobby? Why does he…" His voice faltered.

Bobby grunted. "You know why, Sam."

Dean felt Sam's eyes on him. "Yeah, I know," Sam said softly.

Dean had heard enough. He couldn't let Sam wallow in self-recrimination like this. He made a show of stirring and slowly peeled his eyes open to see Sam looking back at him, brow puckered in a familiar frown of concern. He almost grinned with relief to see Sam looking and behaving like himself.

"Oh, man, it's good to see you awake. How do you feel?"

Dean grunted. "I'm okay."

He started to sit up and a hand clamped down on his chest, holding him in place. "No you don't," Sam said firmly. "You need to rest."

"I've been resting. What time is it?"

"Nine o'clock."

Dean glanced at the window. It was dark outside. "I've been asleep for hours. Let me up, Sam."

With obvious reluctance, Sam removed his hand.

Dean sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He grinned at Sam. "See? I'm fine."

Sam looked unconvinced and continued to hover close as Dean got to his feet.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sam, you're clucking around me like an oversized mother hen. I think I can make it to the bathroom on my own."

Sam frowned. "You passed out, Dean, and I know you have a concussion. I think I'm entitled to worry."

"There's no need. I'm fine." He nodded toward Bobby. Tell him, Bobby."

Bobby, sitting at the table, had been following the exchange with an exasperated expression. "Dean's right, Sam. He'll be okay. Your brother has a thick head."

"Thanks, I think," Dean said dryly.

His legs did feel a bit wobbly, but he made it to the small bathroom, Sam's eyes boring into the back of his head the whole way. He took care of business and splashed water on his face in an attempt to clear away the muzzy feeling. Feeling more alert, he made his way back into the room and carefully sat down in a chair across the table from Bobby.

Sam joined them and put a glass of water down by Dean's elbow. "You need some painkillers?"

"Later."

He caught Bobby's eye. The older man was wearing a grim expression, and Dean was pretty sure he knew why. Carefully avoiding Bobby's gaze, he said, "You want to fill me in on what I missed?"

Bobby grunted. "When Sam made a deliberate choice not to kill you, the binding power of the incantation kicked in."

Dean nodded. "I saw the tattoo turn red."

"Yeah, about that," Sam said. "Explain again how the binding works."

"It's an ancient ritual," Bobby said. "Dates back to early Christian times. There's holy water and a couple of herbs mixed in the ink, but mostly it's Dean's blood."

Sam frowned and his eyes flicked to Dean's bandaged wrist. "Why _Dean's_ blood?"

"The ritual called for blood from someone whose bond with the victim is so strong that he'd willingly give up his own life in exchange for theirs." Bobby glanced at Dean. "I think that pretty much describes your damned fool of a brother, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam said, looking at Dean with an intensity that made Dean uncomfortable.

Dean cleared his throat. "So, when are we leaving?"

"We're not. We're spending the night here," Bobby said. "You need to rest." He held up a hand and scowled as Dean opened his mouth to protest. "Don't even think about arguing."

Dean shut up. Bobby was clearly in a bad mood and, truth to tell, the idea of a few more hours sleep was attractive. He was already finding it hard to stay awake.

Bobby looked at Sam. "Sam, there's some blankets in the truck. Would you go and get them?"

"Sure. I'll be right back."

Bobby angrily rounded on Dean as soon as the door had shut behind Sam.

"You did it again! What's the matter with you, Dean? That was a damned stupid move."

Dean stared back steadily. "You knew it was risky."

"Risky, yeah. We both knew there was an outside chance Sam would be strong enough to break those ropes and escape." Bobby's voice rose in exasperation. "But not suicidal. I wasn't counting on you to be stupid enough to untie him and practically beg him to kill you. What were you thinking?"

Dean's jaw tightened. "I wasn't getting through to him. It was the only way."

Bobby sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I know in your warped view of reality Sam has more right to live than you do. But I'm telling you, that ain't true. When will you get it through your thick head that your life is important? It _matters_ whether you live or die. It matters to me, and to all those people whose lives you've saved and whose lives you're gonna save one day. And most of all, it matters to Sam."

"You don't understand," Dean said stubbornly.

Bobby's expression softened. "I do understand, Dean. I understand better than you think. All I'm asking is that you accept that there are people who care about you and who give a damn whether you live or die. And the most important of those people is about to walk back in that door."

Sam's return saved Dean from finding an answer. He dropped a pile of blankets on the floor, then paused and frowned, clearly sensing the tension. "Something wrong?"

"Everything's just peachy," Bobby said. He stood up. "I'll head into town and get us some dinner – there's a fast food joint that should be open. I'll be back in an hour."

When the door closed behind Bobby, Sam raised an interrogative eyebrow at Dean. "What was that about?"

"Nothing."

"Didn't sound like nothing."

"Leave it, Sam," Dean said wearily.

Sam looked at him closely for a moment. "Okay. How are you feeling?"

"Been better," Dean admitted. "Just need a good night's sleep, though, and I'll be fine."

"Why don't you go and lie down until Bobby comes back?"

"Nah. I'll wait. Hope that joint is open. I'd kill for a burger right now."

Sam sat down at the table and ran a hand through his hair.

"You okay?" Dean asked, remembering that Sam probably still had his own headache from the knockout dart.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just…" He shook his head. "I feel weird."

"What kind of weird?"

"Weird like I'm waking up from a dream… Only it wasn't a dream, and I remember everything that happened – and everything I said."

"That has to suck."

"Look, Dean." Sam hesitated, and Dean thought, _Here it comes_. "All the things I said, what I did – I wasn't thinking clearly. I mean… it was me, but it wasn't _me_."

"I know that, Sam," Dean said quietly.

Sam scrubbed a hand over his face and blew out a long breath. "The really scary thing is, it all made perfect sense at the time. I really believed I could use my powers to fight the demon army." He paused. "You should have killed me, before it came to this."

"Don't be stupid," Dean said harshly. He hated it when Sam talked this way.

"What if this incantation hadn't worked? I'd rather be dead than evil and heading up a demon army."

"It did work. And I won't let that happen. Ever."

Sam's chin jutted out stubbornly. "How can you be sure?"

"Look," Dean said firmly, "the incantation worked, you're not evil, everything's fine." He cocked his head. "At least, I assume it is. Unless you're fighting an overwhelming impulse to come over here and beat the shit out of me?"

Sam's anguished look made him regret the lame attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

"Sam, the point is, we're both okay," he said softly. "Can't we just forget what happened and move on?"

Sam stood up abruptly. "How can we? I hurt you, and I enjoyed it. _I enjoyed it_, Dean! I left you for dead back at that mine. And the things I said… you don't deserve any of that! And today… I came this close to killing you!" He thrust a hand in Dean's face, thumb and forefinger indicating a tiny margin of space.

Dean folded his arms. "But you didn't," he said calmly.

"What if I had? I know what you did, Dean. I know you deliberately let me get the drop on you, so don't even think about denying it."

"I wasn't going to," Dean said mildly. "It was the only way to get through to you."

"It was too big a risk."

Dean shook his head. "No, it wasn't."

"Promise me you won't take a risk like that again."

"I won't need to."

"_Promise me_, Dean."

"I can't do that."

"Dean…"

"Enough, Sam. It's over."

They glared at each other for a long minute, until Sam huffed a breath of frustration and flopped back down on his chair. "This ritual Bobby found. How sure are you that it'll hold?"

Dean shrugged. "Pretty sure."

"But not one-hundred percent?"

"Ninety-nine percent. Nothing's ever certain, Sam."

"Yeah, it is." Sam leaned forward, his expression intense. "You risking your life for me, almost dying for me, over and over – that's certain."

The emotion in the words brought a lump to Dean's throat. "Come on Sam," he said gruffly. "You're making too big a deal out of this."

"Look, I just want you to know, I understand why you do it, and I appreciate it. And I feel the same about you. But I'm gonna kick your ass if you ever risk your life like that for me again, you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Dean?"

"I got it."

They lapsed into silence, but Sam still looked moody and upset. Time to lighten things up a bit.

"You know what?"

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"I've just thought of one real silver lining in all of this."

"Yeah? What's that?"

Dean cocked his head. "Well, you got some genuine Dean Winchester blood in you now, right?"

Sam snorted. "_That's_ a silver lining?"

"As it happens, yes."

"I'm gonna regret this, but lay it on me."

Dean smirked. "I'll do better than that. I'll show you. Let's hit the town."

"You want to hit the town?" Sam's expression turned incredulous. "Dean, aside from the concussion and cracked ribs and the fact that a few hours ago you fainted like a girl, you look like something Godzilla dragged back for dinner."

Dean waved a hand to dismiss Sam's objections. "The chicks dig the rugged, battered look. But you're missing the point." He reached over and clapped Sam on the shoulder, happy to see that the intense look had faded into reluctant amusement. "Chicks, Sam. Now you got my blood, you're bound to score, right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're kidding me, right?"

Dean spread his hands. "Sam, it makes sense. And we'll never know 'til you try."

Sam snorted, but his lips were twitching. "You're unbelievable."

Dean waggled his eyebrows. "That's what all the chicks say, Sammy."

**The End**

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading. I particularly want to thank everyone who's sent encouraging reviews for each chapter - I haven't yet had time to respond to all your messages, but I will soon. I'd like to say I'm sorry for all the cliffhangers, but I really can't because I'm evil like that (!), and I hope the final chapter doesn't disappoint.


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